


Confiteor

by marylex



Category: Oz (HBO)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-10 02:10:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marylex/pseuds/marylex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.</em>
</p>
<p>See, Cyril, he's a tough kid. He got a little bit rattled, but he's gonna shake it off.  The doctors are gonna tell us what we need to do to get him back on his feet and fighting fit. Right back in the ring, one-two-three-pow, right?</p>
<p>Kapow.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Written for the Oz Gift of the Magi Challenge, 2013.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confiteor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aletter2elise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aletter2elise/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Shadowboxer](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153477) by [marylex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marylex/pseuds/marylex). 



Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been ... OK, straight up, it's been a really long time since my last confession. I'm not a confession-type of guy, you know? Confession's good for getting you in trouble, and I always do my best to stay out of trouble. 

You can count on it.

So ... The thing is, I haven't been here in a while. Our mom used to bring us all the time when we were little. She's dead now, though. She's been dead for a while. She's been gone almost as long as she was around. That just figures, right? That she'd die, and we'd get left with our dad? Sometimes I wonder if Mom thought she was finally escaping. 

This is ... it's kind of small in here. Kind of like a coffin. You ever feel like you're buried alive in here, Father?

So, what part is it that comes next?

I don't know, this isn't really about me. It's about my brother. About Cyril. He's in the hospital. He got hurt, because of me. See, Cyril ... he's not so smart, sometimes. He's a real looker, all blond and handsome and shit ... oh, shit, sorry, Father ... but he can do a lot of stupid stuff, like follow his big brother into trouble. Just like he follows me everywhere else. He always has. You ever try to make time with your girlfriend at the movies when your little brother's sitting two rows back? Oh, sorry, Father. I guess not, huh?

Yeah, Cyril, though - it was like he was attached to me by some kind of invisible string, or a leash, or something. Our mom used to blame me for messing him up. Maybe she was right. I always know he'll be OK, though. He's not so smart sometimes, but he's a tough kid. Got his eye on everything ... at least, he usually does. He learned that boxing. I said he's a boxer, right? Yeah, Golden Gloves. He's gonna go all the way next season, win the city championship, make it to the nationals. I tell him, "Cyril, you oughta go pro, get some big-name sponsors, cash in your ticket out of here." One-two-three-pow, right? Take the chance to get out of this shithole.

Oh, hey. Sorry, Father.

But see, Cyril, he was never like those other sadsack fucks down at the boys' club. He's always been a fighter. You can see it in his swing, in the way he connects. His boxing coach says he's a natural. Natural little fighter ... I remember when he was only three years old or something, and he had bronchitis ... or maybe it was the flu ... anyway, we couldn't make him stay in bed. Our mom made me sleep on the sofa, so I wouldn't catch it, and a lot of good that did, because I kept waking up with him plastered to me in the living room, sweating all over the both of us, and when I tried to walk him back to the bedroom, he'd just grab me and hold on ... Natural little fighter, shit yeah. Like the time he broke two ribs and a wrist for Joey Lotta - Joey Lotta Bullshit, we used to call him ... yeah, sorry, Father. Fourteen years old, outside behind that stupid outbuilding they called a gym at school, and I can hear a whole crowd of kids yelling ... I thought it was a fight over a girl. I don't know what it was really about. Maybe it was about nothing. Back when Cyril first started fighting ... I remember his eyes would shine, something in there, like something out of one of those folk tales Sister Margaret Steven used to tell us, trying to scare us into being good - stories about fairies, only not the pussy sparkly kind with little wings and shit. The kind that lived down in the roots of mountains and walked with their feet in the earth or rode lighting. The kind who'd steal you out of the cradle. No fucking pixies. Just like Cyril. Sometimes I look at him and wonder if we should have kept an iron bar in his crib. I wonder what he's doing with me, sometimes, you know, Father?

See, that's the thing about Cyril - he's always right there, with me. Right ... there, whenever I expect him to be, wherever I need him to be. Well, sometimes where I don't need him to be, like getting in Dad's face when we were growing up. Yeah, let me tell you - that was always a great time, Cyril dancing around there, pushing and pulling at Dad until Dad knocked him over. Until he got too big to get knocked over ... he's solid, you know? He's a tough kid. Not just big. He's like some kind of immoveable object and some kind of irresistible force all wrapped up into one. You can see it in the ring. Other places. Wherever we go.

Nah, you probably don't want to know some of the places we go, Father. Anyway, this isn't about me. It's about Cyril. See, everyone thinks he watches my back. Shit. Cyril - he clears the way for me. With him in front of me, I can walk into wherever I want. Walk out of whatever I want, too - smooth sailing. He's a tough kid.

Dad never believed it. He never could see what was right in front of him. See, when Cyril was little, he'd cry when our mom would cry. He always had a soft spot for her. And it was like, the older he got, the more he'd cry, instead of less. Dad couldn't stand that. "It's time to be a man," he'd say. It's the same thing he said to me when he kicked me out of the house. He tried to do the same thing to Cyril, but Cyril, man ... he just kept right on going home. Dad's too cheap to change the locks - that's money he could spend on booze. Not that it would have mattered - Cyril can open a lock slick as shit. Never has got the hang of hotwiring, though. Just like he never learned to just lay low. He always took the hits, the stupid little shit. "Don't slip the jab," he says, whatever the hell that means. It's the followup you've got to watch out for, I guess. I don't know know shit about boxing. I just know he's supposed to keep his eye on what's going on around him - that's the first thing Coach taught him, but look at this bullshit, how many years later, and he's missed the hit ... the hit he took for me, some stupid fight over a girl. But he's a tough kid, right? He always shakes them off.

Our cousin Matthew used to tell me I'd better watch out when Cyril got bigger than me, but I know Cyril would never do anything to hurt me. That kid thinks I make the sun rise and set. I don't know why, Father. What the fuck did I ever do for him? I couldn't keep him from ... He just wouldn't stop walking into it, you know? I remember this one time, I couldn't have been more than nine, and Dad was ... just ... I don't even remember what I did that time. I just remember being up against the refrigerator door, with Dad yelling in my face, and then Cyril was there, pulling on him and crying until Dad ... Shit. I thought it was going to end up like ...

No. Never mind. It doesn't matter any more. This isn't about _that_. This isn't about _her_. This is about Cyril ... He's a tough kid. He's just never fucking learned to lay low. He never seems to get that nobody else is going to be looking out for him. That I'm shit at looking out for him, and all I can do is stand there and watch. A fuckup, that's what our dad's always called me. Maybe he's right.

What? Oh, yeah ... I guess I can't light up in here, huh?

So anyway, now Cyril's lying in the hospital, and he hates hospitals. He always has, even before our mom died. It's like he takes them personally, or something. I remember they stitched him up twice in the gym because he wouldn't go to the ER. Didn't even use anesthetic. He just shook it off and went right back into the ring the next day. Just like he kept walking back into that house until I dragged him out after one more time when Dad came home drunk. He's not so smart sometimes. I tried to tell him, but it's like the one thing he's never listened to me about. "Don't slip the jab," he says. And he just kept walking in front of a fist meant for me, the stupid motherfucker, and now he's lying there in the hospital, because of me. 

So, this is it. See, he's finally awake, and we're meeting with the doctors this afternoon, me and my wife, Shannon. They've been running some kind of tests, to see how much damage there was in there, how long it's going to take to fix it. He got a little bit rattled, but he's gonna shake it off. He's a tough kid. The doctors are going to tell us what we need to do to get him back on his feet and fighting fit. Right back in the ring, one-two-three-pow, right?

Kapow.

And then things are going to be different. This is going to be a new start for us. I'm going to help him through this, and then I'm going to start carrying my weight. I'm going to be there for him this time. I'm finally going to be his big brother, a brother he can depend on. I'm just going to grab him and hold on. I'm going to be there for him, the way he's been there for me. 

I'm going to step up. It's time to be a man. 

I want to make my brother proud.


End file.
